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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27240004">Out Of The Nest</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah'>meaninglessblah</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Prompts &amp; Fills [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Betrayal, Blood and Injury, Damian Wayne is a Talon, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Betrayal, Sad Ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:53:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27240004</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re a bit far from the nest, all the way down here,” Deathstroke’s low timbre filters over to him, and Damian grunts his disapproval in the back of his throat. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Prompts &amp; Fills [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987264</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Out Of The Nest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteicy/gifts">Esteicy</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>An old prompt fill, moved over from Tumblr. Prompt was "Who hurt you?", asked by esteicy-blog &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sewer is quiet and blessedly dark. </p><p>Damian slumps into the wall, propping his shoulders against the worn concrete as he draws his legs up. Grits his teeth and pressed a few hard breaths past the pain. </p><p>The lighting leaves something to be desired down here, but Damian’s never had trouble navigating the darkness with his training before. And this deep into the tunnels, he can sprawl out against a dry (if dripping) patch of concrete and let the wash of trickling water lull him. </p><p>He’s losing too much blood. The sight of it, sickly red and gurgling from him, barely concerns him; he’s lost plenty of blood before. Under the guise of training at the hands of his siblings. At the end of a last, desperate knife in one of his victims’ hands. The ones who had had enough warning to fight back, anyway. </p><p>Nothing quite like this, though. More pressingly, Damian <em>needs</em> to stay conscious. He escaped on sheer quick wit and surprise alone; he doubts he’ll fare so well against such meticulously trained assassins again if they find him in this state. And they will find him. Damian’s never been more certain of anything in his short life. It’s inevitable. </p><p>Damian hisses, hunches over and grinds his blood-slicked palm against the gaping wound at his side. He has to staunch the flow, has to slow the steady gush of blood before he’s too weak to. </p><p>As much as a part of him welcomes the fade, the softer slump of a bloodless death. </p><p>His gloved fingers slide over the clasp of his buckle, the wet leather making it impossible to gain traction against the shine of the metal. He struggles for a moment, pain flaring, before he manages to wrestle the belt free with a groan. </p><p>Damian doesn’t need to divest it of any weapons; he’d lost all his knives in the brief scuffle before he’d managed to throw himself off the Roost. The fall hadn’t hurt nearly as much as the glass that had shredded through his flesh like tissue paper, snagging in the thick kevlar of his suit. Damian can still feel the grit of the shards when he shifts to bind his suit tighter, press it hard against the jagged edges of his wound to hold them closed. </p><p>Panic is brief and fleeting as he fumbles for his prize, fingers finding the smooth sweep of the small dagger again after a moment and gripping tight. It’s only once he’s sure of his grasp on the blade that Damian lets himself slump with a heavy exhale, blinking perspiration and dizziness from the corners of his vision. Now he just has to wait for them to find him. </p><p>They’ll come armed to the teeth, he knows. Not a single knife left behind. Every one destined to find home in Damian, marking out his betrayal with each slide of steel on his flesh. </p><p>His next exhale is not so steady. He lets his eyes slide closed, lets the soft wash of the rain’s deluge echo through the sewer. Let’s himself drift and rest while he can. </p><p>He swims back to consciousness - perhaps a moment, perhaps a millennia later - with the knowledge that he’s not alone. Damian turns his head, glances over at the figure framed by the dim light, taller than he expects - Todd, perhaps? </p><p>But then the man steps closer, steps patient and inexorable, and Damian sees the flash of white hair atop his crown when he passes under a square of light. He bares teeth reflexively, shifting in his sit and grimacing at the fresh wash of agony up his stifled side. It’s hard to breathe this way, his ribcage held bound by the band of leather that’s keeping him alive. </p><p>It’s better than the alternative. </p><p>“You’re a bit far from the nest, all the way down here,” Deathstroke’s low timbre filters over to him, and Damian grunts his disapproval in the back of his throat. </p><p>“Wilson,” he hisses in warning, but can’t summon the strength to sit upright as a wave of lethargy crests over him. </p><p>He’s not a threat any more than Damian’s siblings were. The Talons and Deathstroke have crossed blades many times before; Damian’s sure this won’t be the last time the mercenary scuffles with one of their own. The pair of them have never found cause for disagreement before. Just two professionals, unaligned. </p><p>And if Wilson does wish him harm, Damian’s not long for this world anyway. What’s a kind blade of a merciful foe compared to the sharp bite of a betrayed friend? </p><p>It’s not like he deserves the reprieve anyway. </p><p>Damian’s lips part, dragging down a harsh breath as his brow pinches. Focuses on schooling his rebellious stomach, calming the tide of guilt that it dredges up. Is aware of the man’s slow, curious approach, footsteps nearly imperceptible on the concrete as he kneels at Damian’s side. </p><p>Then a hand around his throat, fingers latching behind his windpipe as Damian snarls and chokes. He lifts a gloved hand to grip at that wrist, wishing he had nails to drag down the exposed skin, and opens his eyes to flash a glare at the man as Wilson settles a knee against his ribs. A secondary pin, if he proves himself capable of shirking the grip at his throat. </p><p>“Who hurt you, little Talon?” the man purrs, amusement curling his lips as Damian’s teeth bare. Wilson surveys him curiously, a few fingers slipping down to dip into the blood at his side, teasing into the gash in a way that makes pain flare sharply through the younger’s torso. </p><p>Damian bites out a growl, canting away from that entranced touch, and knocks his knee into Wilson’s own as it presses down. Holds him steady as the man traces up the length of the wound, inspects it. </p><p>“Why are you down here, little bird?” the mercenary purrs, around a coy smile, studying the flat glower, the way Damian huffs and succumbs to the pin. Slade Wilson is a formidable man at a fair match; Damian’s not foolish enough to challenge him when he’s so compromised. “Why not run back to your psychopathic brothers, to your Roost?” </p><p>Damian’s lip curls in another snarl, another kind of pain flaring through his chest as Wilson hums. And then the hand at his throat constricts sharply. </p><p>He can’t afford to play this game any longer. Damian’s hand - the one clenched around the blade, <em>Dick’s</em> blade - snaps up, aiming for that soft expanse of neck just under the man’s jaw, exposed by the collar of his suit. He can practically taste the blood as its tip catches, picture the pale wash of Wilson’s face when he’s drained dry- </p><p>Wilson’s palm pins flush to the blade, shoving it away and then canting to wrench it from Damian’s slackening grip. Damian bleats a protest, but the hand on his throat is loosening, withdrawing in the next moment as Slade shifts back to inspect the blade under the weak light. </p><p>“This is Grayson’s blade,” he murmurs, that ice blue gaze lacerating Damian when it returns. There’s dawning comprehension there when Wilson smirks, amusement laced through his tone. “Did you fall out of the nest, little Talon?” </p><p>Hatred, raw and undirected, swamps him. The reminder of what he’s lost, the home he’s left behind, is too sudden. It jars his false calm, splintering the meagre reassurances he’d managed to build. Cracks the faith he has in his mother’s patient plan, her intentions to eradicate the nest of lethal Talons with one of their own. </p><p>When he lashes out, it’s without direction. Just claws and reaching fingers demanding the one piece of his old life he has left. The small memento of his mentor that he’d managed to salvage; had paid in the blood that now coats these tunnels, for a memory of Dick. Something to clutch and carry with him when his elder comes to drag him into his grave. </p><p>Wet with Grayson’s blood, with the evidence of Damian’s betrayal. </p><p>His hand is batted away, digits searing into his wrist as it’s twisted and yanked up over his chest. Exposing the severity of his wound to Wilson’s eyes as the man pins Damian’s arm against his own torso, jostling where his knee grinds a bruise into his aching ribs. </p><p>Damian gulps down a bleat of pain, stilling in the hold as Wilson presses the heel of his palm into the younger’s sternum. </p><p>Satisfied with his temporary compliance, Wilson grunts and shifts his grip on the blade, turning it away even as Damian’s keen eyes track it. There’s a solemn knowing in the mercenary’s gaze when he meets it, coiled beneath that ruthless humour. “Not so easy following the puppeteers orders when you have to compromise on the one you love, is it?” </p><p>“Shut up,” Damian grits out through bared, flashing teeth. </p><p>“Did Grayson look surprised when you tried to cut his throat?” Wilson asks. Damian can’t breathe through the guilt that sears up his chest and bubbles behind his eyes. “Or did he suspect you weren’t as loyal as you claimed to be before you made the first strike?” </p><p>Damian’s lip curls. “Shut <em>up.</em>” </p><p>“Did he order your brothers to exterminate you, traitorous little Talon? Or did he want to finish you off himself?” </p><p>Damian roars, kicking out for the man’s knee, even as he shifts to absorb the hit. Wilson layers his weight down heavier on Damian’s sternum, squeezing the breath sharply from his lungs as the younger keens and throws his head back. “By his hand,” Damian chokes, and Wilson’s chest rumbles in a laugh. </p><p>“Had to do the deed himself,” Wilson interprets with an absent shake of his head. “Grayson always was sentimental.” </p><p>Damian shakes his head in dissent, sucking down a laboured breath. “By his hand. Go back. I have to- <em>Grayson promised-</em>” </p><p>Wilson’s gaze clears with understanding, an odd quiet awe settling over his features as Damian gasps in too little air, head spinning. “You want to go back there, don’t you, little Talon?” </p><p>Damian whines and nods, hiccuping on tears when the weight doesn’t alleviate from his sternum. He doesn’t want to die here. Grayson promised him the death he’d earned, a death by his side. A death beneath the drag of his blade and his blade alone, where Damian could see his face, hear his words, as he was taken from this world. Damian would get what he was owed, what he was promised. </p><p>Wilson sighs, and eases off his chest enough that Damian can gulp in a ragged breath. He waits while the younger heaves through his first few inhalations, choking them out in broken coughs that echo in the enclosed space. When Damian settles back against the concrete, cheeks wet and skull throbbing, Wilson says, his tone hushed, “Apologies then, little bird. But your mother has a contract, and I intend to fulfill it.” </p><p>He sounds remorseful. Damian doesn’t care. </p><p>When Wilson drags him over onto one shoulder to bind him wrist to elbow, Damian can’t summon the will to fight it. His chest hurts, in more way than one, and all he can see is the look on Grayson’s face when he’d unveiled his mission, begged him to leave with Damian. The sneered grimace that had twisted Damian’s stomach into a tight knot as Grayson had pulled a knife from his belt, incensed with despair. </p><p>Wilson slides gloved fingers through the young Talon’s locks, lips brushing Damian’s ear when he exhales a shuddering breath into the pavement, complacent beneath the mercenary’s hands. “You’ll be home soon, little Talon.” </p><p><em>No, I won’t,</em> Damian thinks, and closes his eyes. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
<a href="https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah">

</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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